


In the right hands

by Rusakko



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:11:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6686815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rusakko/pseuds/Rusakko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lalli regards other people’s hands with a healthy dose of suspicion.</p>
<p>Emil's hands are different from other people's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the right hands

Lalli generally prefers not to be touched. He regards other people’s hands with a healthy dose of suspicion. You never know what they might do. Nothing particularly nice, usually.

His cousin Onni’s hands are large and heavy. When he was younger, Lalli often had to tolerate their weight on his shoulders while Onni lectured him about things that he claimed were important. Mostly, they were just boring.

His cousin Tuuri’s hands are smaller, but surprisingly strong. When Lalli was a child, they were unpredictable: mercilessly tickling him or pulling his hair in one moment, patting his head and sneaking him sweets in the next. These days, they’re usually trying to drag him somewhere he doesn’t want to go.

His grandmother’s hands were old and gnarled, yet firm and steady. They were hands that Lalli trusted. That he thought could fend off any darkness that might threaten him. Then, one day, they weren’t there anymore.

His mother’s and father’s hands he can barely remember.

Lately, there have been new hands to contend with. Sigrun’s are dangerous and must be avoided at all costs. Like her voice, they are too forceful and, unintentionally or not, prone to cause pain – careless in their enthusiasm. Any gentleness Sigrun is capable of seems reserved for Tuuri, who sometimes receives an almost affectionate hair-ruffle from the captain.

Mikkel’s hands, in contrast, are never careless. They’re deliberate and decisive, and it’s useless to struggle against them. That’s why it’s best not to let them catch you at all. Otherwise, you’ll end up in the bathtub and get drenched with cold water from the hose, or at the very least have smelly disinfectant squirted all over your face.

Reynir’s hands are harmless but uninteresting, usually occupied either with the kitten or with his ridiculously long braid. So far, they have left Lalli alone. He would like to keep it that way.

Emil’s hands are different. Lalli doesn’t know why that is, precisely. It’s not that Emil has demonstrated any particular deftness or dexterity. In actual fact, he’s rather clumsy – spilling food, fumbling with his rifle. He does have a good throwing arm, though so far, he hasn’t put it to very good use. The tank would’ve been better off with its rear-view mirror than without it. But it’s not this skill for throwing things that makes Emil’s hands so strange.

It’s that, of all the hands pushing, prodding and pulling at him, they’re the only ones whose touch Lalli welcomes. Even, occasionally, hopes for.

If Tuuri tried to smooth his hair down or wrap an arm around his shoulders like Emil does, Lalli would duck, squirm, back away. And she’s the one who usually gets away with more touching than anyone else. With Tuuri, he’s willing to endure it to make her happy. That’s what you do with family.

With Emil’s hands, it’s not a question of enduring. Emil’s hands can turn restless sleep into peaceful slumber just by resting on Lalli’s forehead. They were there to check on him when he was stuck in the dreamworld without his _luonto_ , unable to wake up. They have punched a giant in the face to keep him safe. And they’ve quickly learned to avoid things he doesn’t like. For that, Lalli is willing to forgive the occasional misstep, like the punch that Tuuri claimed was meant to be friendly.

Right now, those hands are trembling. The rest of Emil is trembling, too, but the hands are the most obvious part. Not even the sickening, lurching movement of the tank can hide how badly they are shaking.

Emil is slumped against the wall, eyes scrunched shut. His clothes are splattered with rotten, half-liquid troll flesh. His breath is coming in short, sharp gasps. Lalli doesn’t think it’s just because of the running. They did run quite a distance, and fast, even Sigrun with blood running down her face and torn bandages trailing from her injured arm. She’s swearing at Mikkel now, her voice carrying clearly from the front of the tank over the growl of the engine. Lalli doesn’t know Norwegian, but it’s been impossible not to pick the most common curse words up when living in close proximity with the captain. He doesn’t envy Mikkel. The nervous energy Sigrun is filled with after a battle must make it hard to concentrate on stitching her wounds up.

As far as Lalli can see, Emil is unhurt. That’s all thanks to Sigrun. Without her lightning reactions, Emil would be a head shorter right now. He would also be dead. Lalli’s shouted warning when the troll dropped down from the ceiling wouldn’t have saved Emil if the captain hadn’t been there to throw herself in front of the cleanser.

No wonder that every curse from the next room makes Emil flinch.

Lalli is fairly certain that Sigrun will be fine. People who are approaching the gates of Tuonela rarely have enough breath left to make this much noise. He’s more worried about Emil. Despite not being injured, his friend seems to need help.

Emil’s gloves are caked with troll blood. It’s difficult to peel them off, and it doesn’t help that he is still shaking uncontrollably. His fingers are cold and clammy when Lalli grasps them in his hands.

Lalli knows he should probably do something more. There are words and gestures that people use to comfort each other. The trouble is that Lalli has never been any good at learning those kinds of things. In any case, it would be useless to say anything because Emil wouldn’t understand him. So Lalli just stays on his knees in front of his shivering friend, holding his hands and listening to his unsteady breathing.

Gradually, Emil’s hands stop shaking. Slowly, they grow warmer. Little by little, his breathing calms down. In the front of the tank, Sigrun has quietened down, too. She and Mikkel are talking more softly now, Sigrun’s weary voice contrasting with Mikkel’s steady rumble.

“Lalli?”  
Lalli raises his eyes from his and Emil’s intertwined hands to find his friend looking at him. He’s pretty sure that Emil is feeling better now. The Swede looks exhausted but alert. The attack of fear and breathlessness seems to have passed.

Emil says something in Swedish. As usual, Lalli doesn’t understand, so he gives Emil a blank stare and waits for some kind of an action that he can interpret. He can’t read his friend’s expression. Is that an attempt at a smile?

Then Emil gently but firmly extricates his hands from Lalli’s grip.

Lalli is surprised to feel a pang of disappointment. Almost hurt. All of a sudden, his hands feel cold. He’s about to get up from the floor and leave Emil be – he’s no stranger to wanting space, after all, and it appears that his help is no longer needed – when Emil takes hold of his shoulders and pulls him closer instead.

He ends up nestled against Emil’s chest, his face barely clear of a particularly nasty splash of troll goop on Emil’s coat. It’s a bit gross, but he finds himself not minding. They’ll both need to be decontaminated anyway after Tuuri finds a safe place for the tank to stop. Until then, they might as well stay like this, holding on to each other as the tank makes its bumpy way over potholes and cracks in the road.

Emil’s breath is warm in Lalli’s hair. Lalli finds his friend’s hand and squeezes it to give reassurance. Or maybe to receive it himself. He can’t quite decide. After a moment, Emil squeezes his hand back sleepily. His eyes are drifting shut. Lalli closes his eyes, too. They won’t be able to rest for long, but it doesn’t matter.

Right now, everything is fine.

**Author's Note:**

> I may have claimed before that I'm not much of a shipper. Maybe it's time to admit that I was lying to myself?


End file.
